John Stack - Armada

The threat of invasion had whipped the population into a frenzy of anti-Catholicism. Fearing any uprising of English Catholics the Privy Council had already ordered the internment of known leading Catholics in Wisbech Castle in Cambridgeshire, and the populace, in terror of the Spanish Inquisition, were openly calling for their execution. The older people still remembered Bloody Mary. The Catholics had shown little mercy for Protestants when they were in power. Now that the tables were reversed the Catholics could expect little mercy.

The longboat reached the docks and Seeley led the way to the garrison. A guard directed them to the prison block. They crossed the inner courtyard to an iron-studded wooden door. It led into a guard room where two men were seated at a table.

‘I am Master Seeley and this is Captain Varian of the Retribution . You have a Roman Catholic prisoner here. We need to see him.’

One of the guards stood up slowly. He looked them up and down and then walked over to the inner door. Taking a ring of keys from his belt he unlocked it and motioned them through.

The corridor beyond was windowless and was lit by torches. A series of doors ran along one side. Only the furthest one was open and Robert followed Seeley towards it as the door to the guard room was locked behind them. A terrible scream pierced the still air, turning the blood in Robert’s veins to ice. They entered the room. It was a small airless space and was dominated by a single object in the middle of the room.

Three men stood around it, but Robert barely saw them. His eyes were fixed on the man stretched out on the rack. His ankles and wrists were bloodied and torn by the bonds that held him fast to the rollers at both ends. His limbs were grotesquely extended and his skin had been badly burned in numerous places. He had blacked out from the pain. The smell of faeces and sweat and seared flesh was overpowering. Robert looked at the sweat stained face of the prisoner and his stomach lurched. He knew him. He was one of the locals who had attended mass on the motte beside Saint Michael’s when Robert had first met Father Blackthorne there, the man who had come with his wife and young daughter. Robert backed away towards the door.

‘Who are you?’ one of the men spat.

Seeley told him.

‘I’m Browne, Sergeant at arms. If you’ve come for the interrogation you’re too late. The local agent, Tanner, and his men have already come and gone.’

‘Who is he?’ Seeley asked, unable to look away from the rack. He had only ever seen pictures of the device in Foxe’s Book of Martyrs .

‘His name’s Bailey. He’s a scribe in the Clerk’s office.’

‘What has he told you?’ Robert asked.

‘Plenty,’ the sergeant replied with a cold smile. ‘He’s a traitor alright, a stinking papist. He was found in the Ordnance office, somewhere he wasn’t supposed to be. They suspect he was looking for the artillery manifests for the fleet. When he was challenged he panicked and tried to flee. They searched him and found he was wearing a crucifix under his doublet. That’s when they brought him to us. He claims he’s not a spy, the lying bastard, just a recusant. He gave us the names of some other Roman Catholic families in the area, and the name of his papist priest, a Father Blackthorne. Tanner said he already knew that name and that the priest was dead. He’s out tracking down the other families now and we already have his wife and daughter locked up.’

‘Did he mention the name Young?’ Seeley asked

Browne thought for a second and then shook his head.

‘Sergeant, I need to know if this man knows another Roman Catholic named Young.’

Browne took a torch down from the wall and brought it over to the rack, twisting it slightly in his hand to ensure the flame was strong. He thrust it into Bailey’s side. Bailey surfaced from unconsciousness with an ear-piercing scream. He fought his bonds but he couldn’t move and the struggle increased the pain in his tortured joints. He shouted incoherently.

‘Shut up, you treacherous whoreson,’ Browne shouted. ‘This officer wants to ask you a question.’

Bailey continued to speak. He started begging for mercy, his head jerking from side to side.

‘Do you know a man named Young?’ Seeley shouted.

Bailey seemed not to hear and again Browne stabbed at him with the torch. His screams filled the room.

‘Do you know what name Young uses?’ Seeley shouted, appalled by what he saw, the torture sickening him. He steeled his nerve. Bailey was a Roman Catholic, a heretic, an abomination before God.

‘No,’ Bailey cried. ‘I don’t know, please!’

‘Give him another twist,’ Browne said and the two men took a grip on the handles.

They put their weight behind the lever. Bailey’s screams reached a higher pitch and Seeley watched in grim fascination as the pawl of the ratchet moved along the length of a tooth. There was a loud popping sound as something inside Bailey’s arm snapped and as the pawl slotted into place the room went quiet. Bailey had blacked-out again.

‘Get a bucket of water to wake him up,’ Browne ordered.

‘No,’ Robert said. ‘Enough. He doesn’t know the man you’re looking for, Thomas.’

Seeley’s eyes were on Bailey’s face. It was twisted in agony. He felt a twinge of pity and he angrily suppressed his leniency. God and righteousness were on his side. He had to be strong.

‘Get the water,’ he said to the sergeant.

Robert turned and left the room. He hammered on the guard room door and went out to the courtyard. He could barely breathe. He was sure Bailey knew nothing of his real identity but he felt nauseous with fear. He had witnessed the fate that surely awaited him if he was ever caught, and if he survived the torture, he would be burned at the stake, with men like Seeley igniting the pyre.

Robert walked unsteadily back towards the docks. The Spanish were coming. It was inevitable, but Robert also hoped it would be soon. He had enemies on two fronts. To his rear the authorities were hunting Robert Young while to his fore the Spanish sought to crush him and his countrymen. Only in battle would he attain the clarity of facing a single enemy.

Evardo slowly paced the main deck of the Santa Clara , his gaze ceaselessly ranging over the entire ship as he watched the crew at work. She was a fine galleon, not five years old and had been built in Cantabria, the birthplace of over half the fighting ships of the Armada. Designed for transatlantic trade voyages the galleon had a massive hold over which ran a single gun deck high above the water line.

The crew were swarming everywhere and the air was charged with excitement. The expedition’s banner had recently been consecrated and it hung from every masthead in the fleet, a flag adorned with the royal arms and depictions of the Virgin Mary and the Crucifixion superimposed on red diagonals. A general fleet muster had been held. Everything was ready. The mighty Armada waited only on a fair breeze to take them out of the mouth of the Tagus.

Evardo stopped pacing and looked to the quarterdeck as the sailing captain, Arnaldo Ramos Mendez, shouted an order to the men working in the rigging of the mainmast. He was a hard taskmaster but Evardo had already come to appreciate his skill and efficiency and the manner in which he commanded the eighty-six sailors on board. Evardo’s first impressions of the other three captains on board were equally positive but like all comandante s, his main concern was how his four direct subordinates would work together.

Upon assuming command Evardo had immediately determined the social rank of each. All four were near equals, which would foster cooperation, but more importantly Evardo’s lineage was superior to them all, thus legitimizing his command, not only for the four captains but for the entire crew.